


Blacklight Fantasies

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Wild and Free [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Alternative Lifestyles, Biting, Blacklights, Body Worship, Club Colosseum, Clubbing, Dancing, Dirty Talk, Fetish, Gothic, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Industrial music, London Club Scene, M/M, Rough Sex, Rough handling, Shotgunning, Tattoo Kink, Tattooed!Q - Freeform, Tattoos, slight D/s overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Glenfiddich Slut". </p><p>Bond and Q go to a Goth night at Club Colosseum. Q has UV ink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starting the Night Off Right

Bond stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom, staring at himself.

Tonight was going to be a wholly new experience for him. They - he and Q - were going to the Colosseum during their gothic festival, and he wanted to at least fit in with the undoubtedly younger and hipper - _hell, do they even use the word ‘hipper’ anymore?_ \- crowd. He scowled at his reflection. Unfortunately, he didn’t own anything that could be considered remotely “gothic”. He cocked his head to the left, then slowly back over to the right and walked over to the large closet and stared at the selection of suits...no. “No suits.” Q had stipulated that from the beginning, while he was draped over Bond’s back and sucking dark marks onto his shoulder blades. “You will most likely get laughed at all night. Find something comfortable, something you can move in. Trust me.” Bond’s snarky response had been drowned in a hungry kiss, and then he’d forgotten everything for a while as Q’d worked his fingers deep into him, making the world fall away into nothing more than filthy, dirty pleasure.

He could hear the music thumping from the spare room, the one that he’d given to Q a week ago to store some of his clothing and computer equipment, and wondered again what the pup was going to wear. They should at least match with each other. “Safe bet would be black,” he muttered, chewing on the ragged edge of his thumb. “Grey? Blue jeans...no. I think I have black or grey somewhere...” He slid past the rack with his bespoke suits and leather wingtips, going further in for his more casual clothes. He did indeed find a pair of grey jeans, ridiculously tight and expertly faded, with holes strategically placed to have the maximum allure. To that, he added a black silk dress shirt; then he knelt in front of his shoes. Shoes might be a problem. Without a better choice, he backtracked and pulled out his well worn solid black spectators and a pair of good socks.

The door to his room opened, letting in something he distantly recognised as Nine Inch Nails, and shuffling on the carpet that he knew Q did deliberately. He did work with assassins, after all. “Bond, are you done yet? You take longer than a woman, I swear!”

The agent backed out of the closet, turned around - and everything dropped to the floor at his feet from senseless fingers as every blood cell diverted to his cock.

Fuck ‘pup’. Q looked fucking _lethal._

Bond blinked at him, his brain trying to locate a file that would have warned him about this. Nothing came to him, so he started making one. He found it easiest to begin from the top, with the hacker’s artfully tousled hair held back with a pair of black goggles. The glasses were gone, but Q had contacts in, obviously, because instead of bright emerald green irises, he now had ice blue, something that _did things_ to Bond’s brain and stomach. A skin-tight, see-through black fishnet shirt covered his top half; a worn leather cincher wrapped around his waist highlighted his lean torso. Bond tried to wrap his mind around the normally feminine article of clothing and how fucking _amazing_ it looked on the hacker, but it stubbornly refused, sliding past to latch onto the solid black jeans with metal o-rings climbing up the sides, tight on Q’s thin legs. The boots, though - leather, straps, buckles, metal accents...oh, holy hell. _Holy Mother of God_. He’d seen people with makeup and spikes and chains, Goths to the core, gritty and brutal in their fuck-the-world way, but none of that did anything for him. But this. _This. Holy shit._

“Are you going to stare all night, or are you going to get dressed?”

Q’s smug voice dragged him back out of his mind, and he pulled his gaze back up that delicious body until he was looking into mirrors of his own eyes once more. He fought to regain his equilibrium, his lips hitching up into a cocky half-smirk that had worked so well in the past. “I’ll get dressed after I peel you out of those clothes and fuck you senseless.”

Q’s head dropped in a predatory way as his red lips curled up into a snarl that sparked along Bond’s nerves like wildfire. “I think, by the end of tonight, _you_ will be the one beneath _me_.” He stepped forward to drag fingers down Bond’s chest, and followed them with the tip of his wet tongue, humming darkly. “I should think so. Get ready so we don’t have to stand outside all fucking night.” With a quick sharp bite to his collarbone, Q backed away and stood to one side, allowing the agent to bend down and pick the clothing up and walk to the bed with the pile.

It didn’t take him long to get everything on, not with the threat of Q behind him...or was it a promise? Bond wasn’t sure anymore. He supposed it didn’t matter - this man was obviously going to keep him on his toes, and the assassin in Bond jerked at its chains and growled in challenge. _Come on, Q. You think you can take me? You think you can take all that I am? I kill people, fuck people for a living. You are cocky and arrogant and my prey. Want to try me?_ The thoughts had him nearly panting in a twisted pantomime of sexual and physical frustration, and when he buttoned the last button on his shirt and turned to face his Quartermaster, the sheer animalistic _want_ glittering in the younger man’s eyes pushed him forward, shoes cushioned in the carpet as he closed in on Q. The man didn’t move as Bond threaded his left hand through the unruly strands of dark brown hair and gripped, yanking the hacker’s head back to expose the long pale curve of his neck. Bond dipped his head down and licked a long stripe from the jugular notch - _a stiff finger strike to this point could kill an opponent, crushing the windpipe and resulting in suffocation from blockage and blood_ -, up along the sternomastoid muscle to just below Q’s decorated ear, pressing his tongue and teeth into the soft spot right on the point of his jaw - _use the middle knuckle to hit the pressure point here to immobilise and shock the opponent_ \- and nibbling the sensitive skin he found there.

Q let out a growl, deeper than Bond thought the man capable of, and rolled his hips against him, pressing his erection hard against Bond’s thigh and melding his torso against Bond’s. His soft hands skittered along Bond’s ribs, sliding along the slick silk to press demandingly into the agent’s pectorals. “Oh, fuck, Bond. Fucking... _gorgeous_.” He purred and pulled against the hand in his hair, dragging his hands back down to grip Bond firm and sure through his trousers. “You are fucking gorgeous when you are thinking about killing, James Bond.” His words - and his hands - jerked every nerve ending Bond possessed to attention, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

“Fucking hell, Q...” He sank his teeth hard into Q’s trapezius just above the neckline of that sinful quasi-shirt, biting as hard as he could without breaking the skin. Q’s body sprung taut, a whine leaving his mouth on a sharp exhale, and his hands stopped kneading. One finger dragged hard against the middle of Bond’s shaft, and Bond tightened his grip on Q’s hair against the sharp sensation, growling into his skin. Q’s breaths were coming in short gasps and his hips hitched in short abortive movements as he rubbed himself against Bond’s thigh. One hand left Bond’s crotch and pawed at the back of his head, tugged at his blond hair, almost as if Q was asking for relief. Bond eased up on the bite, pressing his tongue against the vicious blood-red and bruising mark, soothing the sting he knew was singing through Q’s skin. Q shuddered against him, the metal on his trousers ringing against each other.

“Jesus...” Q gasped.

“Alright?” _Oh, don’t fucking ask that, you wanted to fucking eat him up like an appetiser, you stupid man._

“Oh, more than alright, Bond.” Q looked at him with those fucking eyes and stroked his hair idly. “That was lovely, but I’d much rather get going to the Colosseum. I don’t want to be late because you were ‘fucking me senseless’.” He smirked as he parroted the agent’s earlier words back at him, and turned on his heel. “Oh, and don’t worry about your erection. It looks good on you.” He left the room with a little swagger, a little sashay of his hips that had the predator and the man inside of Bond drooling and pawing for more.


	2. Let the Music Move You

The drive to the Colosseum had been quick for once, which wasn't something Q was used to, judging by the very tense look on the man's face. Of course, it didn’t help that James took his Vanquish, which he insisted on driving at warp seven most of the time. With the pent up sexual frustration and anticipation rolling around in his gut, he drove even faster 

“James. For the last time. I’m tired of altering your records to account for the appalling amount of traffic violations you’ve racked up over the last few years.” Q loosened his grip on the door panel and sighed. “Stop driving like a madman.”

“And you need to stop complaining. We’re here and we are alive.” James pulled into the parking stall and cut the engine. For a moment, he sat, still and silent. His eyes roamed over the unbelievable creature that was sitting in the passenger seat; legs crossed at the knees, leaning back in the custom-made racing seats, cigarette hanging idle from long, pale fingers. Black lacquered nails glinted in the street lamp’s yellowish glow as he lifted the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, his fae eyes dropping closed on the exhale. Smoke streamed out of his nose, and Bond wanted nothing more at that moment than to climb onto Q’s lap, trap him in the seat and snog him absolutely fucking bonkers. Q opened his eyes and cast a sidelong glance at Bond, his lips drawing up into a wicked little smirk.

“You know, I think there’s enough room in this behemoth of a car -” And that’s all he was able to get out as the predator attacked. Bond growled and unhooked his belt, swinging himself up and over, hooking a leg under Q’s crossed ones. His head hit the ceilling, and there was a bit of jostling around, but he settled down on Q’s thighs and braced both palms on either side of Q’s head.

“Of course there is.” He squinted hard, knowing what he looked like because Q’s pupils grew large beneath the coloured contacts. Q licked his blood-red lips and pressed the butt of the cigarette against his mouth again, his eyes flickering through the hazy smoke curling out of the crack in the window. As Q took it away, Bond leaned in, his intentions clear as he licked at Q’s lips, pressing his tongue past for a moment - and Q breathed out as Bond breathed in, and oh. _Oh._ Of course, Bond has shotgunned before, has shotgunned smoke from all sorts of things and people. But doing it here and now, on Q’s lap in his own fucking car, acting like a giddy schoolgirl on her first date…He sucked in Q’s air and breathed back out, then lowered his head once more, smirking before claiming Q’s lips with bites and licks and nips that Q returned with a hunger that was only hinted towards at Bond’s flat. Bond could feel the erection that hadn’t really gone away return full force, and he rolled his hips, pressing his body against Q’s tight, lithe form. A growl rolled out from deep within Q, and not for the first time that night Bond got a glimpse of the sexual creature beneath the sweet hopeless hacker exterior, a creature that Bond hadn’t known existed until he’d shagged Q on the floor like a fucking animal after a minorly rough mission. A harder roll, and Bond could feel Q’s own erection pressing against those lethally tight trousers, and the metal rings attached to the legs rattled. Beneath him, Q groaned and bucked up, pressing them even closer.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Q.” James panted into Q’s ear and licked the shell. Q whined.

“God, let’s get into that club before it bloody well closes.” Q pushed at Bond’s chest with a fair amount of force, and unbuckled himself. Bond chuckled darkly and popped open Q’s door first, then slid back over and opened his own. They exited at the same time, and James turned to face Q, who was busy shoving his packet of smokes, a wallet, and his mobile into his pockets.

“It would help if they weren’t so tight,” James snarked. Q glared at him, but they could hear the bass of the music this close to the club, and Q moved almost unconsciously, his body snaking through the motions like water.

  
Bond wasn’t even thinking about snarking anymore. They just had to make it to the door before he lost it and something happened and they would both be getting ASBOs for public indecency. They patted down for anything loose and stealable, and made their way around the building to the entrance, which had a long and impatient queue. James made to pull Q over to get into the queue, but with a curt shake of his head, Q lead Bond to the front of the line, where the biggest bastard Bond had seen yet in his life stood with a clear earpiece pressed into one ear and gigantic arms crossed over a barrel chest. A really big barrel chest. Bond could take him, probably.

Q, on the other hand, waved and grinned. “Hi, Marcus!” He had to shout to be heard over the bass thumping out of the open entrance.

The bouncer smiled back, uncrossing his arms slowly. “Hey there, Robbie. Good night?”

Q pulled at Bond’s wrist lightly until he was flush with the hacker’s arse. “Gonna be. Wanna be my friend?” And Q managed to make the most adorable ‘I’m a cute little twink with a hot arse and a hot boyfriend, could you let us in?’ face. Bond wanted to either strangle him or snog him, right there.

The bouncer - Marcus - sighed. “Sure. Go on in.” He gives Bond a once-over, and nods carefully, pressing a hand to his right shoulder where a tattoo would go.

Military.

Bond nods back, and Marcus smiles, a tight one that said that if Bond hurt Q he’d have one hell of a nightmare coming after him. Bond slipped past him and followed Q into the oppressively packed club. Heat and musk and cologne and alcohol and sex mixed together in the heavy humid air inside, and the fog machines competed with the stage lighting to see which could make more of a hazard to Bond’s sanity. He could never stand the closeness of the clubbing scene, especially with the training ingrained into his very being. But he’d said he’d do this, and Q had agreed wholeheartedly. There was no turning back now. Q pulled him past staring singles and couples and triples, into a dark corner away from the speakers, and leaned up to Bond’s ear. “Are you sure you want to do this? I saw how you tensed up at the entrance. I know this could be bad for you.”

Bond shook his head. Leave it to the Quartermaster to look out for his wellbeing. “I’m fine." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, back to the entrance that beckoned him. "What’s Marcus’ story?”

“Protective bugger.” Q smiled, wolfish and wide. “Figures himself to be my bodyguard out here when he’s casing the floor. I haven’t the heart to tell him I’m fully capable of defending myself, and probably him at the same time.” Q flicked a hand to the bar. “Do you need a drink?”

Bond nodded, and pulled Q out into the open again, over to the packed bar. He managed to catch the attention of one of the pretty blonde girls working behind the scenes. She walked over, all strut and sass and batting eyelashes. Bond tossed his black card on the bartop and made his order - straight scotch, no ice - and looked at Q for a clue of what to order for him. Q cocked his head and smirked. “I’ll drink whatever you get me, love.”

There was that word again. Love. Bond blinked away his confusion and turned back to the girl. “Vodka. Your choice of mixer. Make it strong.” He wanted to get Q ‘in the mood’, as it were, as soon as possible. Well. Not like he wasn’t already, but alcohol seemed to help bring out the animal in the man. He had to shout over the heavy industrial music, and the very air around him thumped and drummed against his head and chest. He could feel the bass to his core. The song switched to something he finally recognised, and a couple seconds later both drinks were in front of him. He scooped them up and moved through the crowd, head nodding to the heavy metal as he turned to make sure Q was still behind him. He spotted a table and started moving towards it, but a hand on his sleeve shifted his direction. He let Q steer them out to the dance floor instead. They dodged sweaty, gyrating dancers, and found a little spot of the floor that wasn’t as thickly occupied. Once there, though, the song changed, and Bond had no idea what to do with his body.

“Watch me.”

The quiet words caught Bond’s attention from watching the clubgoers for signs of attack, and his head swiveled around - oh, _Jesus_ Christ.

Q had his drink in one hand, and he took a long drink before snaking his hips and letting the motion travel through his whole body, toes to head, arms rolling up and above his head. Bond couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blatant display, a mating dance of the night. Bond moved forward without conscious thought, his hands finding their rightful places on Q’s hips, feeling the roll and dip of movement, of dance. As the song progressed, Q got bolder. His whole body undulated, and the animalistic glint from before returned as he pressed closer, rolling his body against Bond’s, nearly rutting. The tip of his pink tongue slipped along his lips, and Bond ducked in to catch it before it could disappear again.

Q growled and nipped lightly at Bond’s lips, then a bit harder at Bond’s jaw, traveling along the strong line to lick a path up to Bond’s ear. Bond could feel himself harden even further and let out a deep growl himself.

“Jesus, you are…” Bond couldn’t get much more out because Q moved away again, staring hard at him the entire time. The next song came on, and Q began to dance.


	3. The Kiss of the Moonlight

Watching Q dance was like watching a slow-motion explosion. Each motion, every flick of his eyes and fingers, every sinuous roll of his hips, each calculated right down to the last atom to entrance and attract the attention and make the person he was after want him like no one had ever wanted anything before. The lights played over pale skin already damp and glistening with sweat, multicoloured specks and slashes streaking over his leather corset and glinting off of the metal all over him. As the music shifted to something faster, so did Q. He changed the rhythm of his motions to a harder, faster beat, his hair flying around his head. And yet, the effect still held Bond captivated and ridiculously turned on.

Bond swayed with the beat, trying to find the niche that Q so easily manipulated and tried not to make himself look so out of place on the dancefloor, which felt alien to him. He normally was the epitome of confidence and calm, but it was almost too much to be here, in this chaotic whirlwind of motion and lights and bodies... If his attentions weren’t so focused on Q, he would have been out the door already. It was too hot, too dark, too spastically bright at all the wrong moments, and much too...close. Bodies gyrated and ground against each other all around them, the scents of body spray and glitter and hair gel and sweat and sex...it was driving him mad, and he was already half out of his brain with desire for Q. He moved closer as the song changed again, and tried to pluck a rhythm out of the dense air around him, but so many people were dancing in so many different ways. It was confusing him. And then Q was pressed against him, sliding damply on bare skin and catching on clothing, his body language different than just seconds before. _God, Q’s observant._

“Is there something wrong?” He had to nearly shout to be heard over the bass and the ambient noise.

Bond shook his head. “Not anything bad. Just not sure I can dance to this electronic stuff.”

Q grinned, softer and kinder than before. Reassuring. “It takes some getting used to. Here.” He placed his hands on Bond’s hips, stroking along the taut muscles, thumbs digging into his abdomen. From here, Q led Bond into a slower, slinkier dance, more sensual than the nearly-flailing moves from the last song. They moved as one, Q smiling at Bond and closing his eyes as the skin-tingling touches of their connections - thighs, hips, stomachs, hands on hips and shoulders, rubbing and stroking - overrode his desire to watch Bond. Bond succumbed as well, feeling his own eyelids close. Q hummed up at him, and he opened his eyes again to catch Q licking his lips. Bond leaned down and kissed Q then, soft and hungry and thankful; for what, he wasn’t sure yet. He’d come up with an excuse for such an open display of affection, but now was not the time. Q was in his arms, humming and rubbing up against him, gripping his hips tightly, pulling them away from the main floor. Bond made a confused noise; he’d thought they were finally getting the right feel and doing just fine. He tugged at Q’s fishnet shirt and cocked his head. Q only smiled and continued off the floor - or, rather, to a darker spot of it where everything seemed to glow. There was an ethereal halo around the area, like the very dust motes in the air were phosphorescent. Bond looked around, entranced, feeling like a child again as he watched the swirling and floating fog. Q turned quickly to face Bond and his smile turned into a wicked, dangerously playful grin. The glint in his eyes shifted to gleeful as a stray white stage light flickered over him, and he snaked his whole body to the music as he had before, letting the music define his motions. The dance was sensual, faster and somehow dirtier, more geared towards sexual the longer he danced. He seemed to glow as much as the air around him, as if he were touched by mystical moonlight, and Bond licked his lips with anticipation even as he mentally kicked himself for the silly things his brain was supplying to describe Q in this moment.

Q’s fingers danced down his corset, undoing the ties and clasps, pulling it off with a little flourish and setting the leather down on an empty table. As Bond watched, captivated with the apparent striptease, Q hooked his long fingers under his barely-there shirt and pulled it off slowly, the muscles in his torso playing under his skin as he raised his arms and rolled his hips. Bond’s mouth went dry, and he licked his lips again. He thought about speaking, but his logical mind had a mini-conference with his hindbrain and decided that keeping quiet would be the best course of action, because anything that came out of his mouth at that moment would most likely not be in English or in any discernable language. The shirt finally cleared Q’s head, and it joined the corset on the table. Bond blinked in the dense air, clearing his throat to say something that wasn’t gibberish…

And then Q turned away from him.

All Bond got out was a verbal keymash and, “Oh holy mother of fuck…”

Q’s back was lit up in a glowing cybernetic display of connections and conduits and _oh. My. God._ Bond’s logical brain barely acknowledged that they must be under a ridiculous amount of blacklights for Q’s UV tattoos to show so clearly and beautifully. Actually, his logical brain completely gave up and took a vacation. His operational brain was stuck in neutral, all revving engine and squealing tires but no forward motion. His lizard brain, on the other hand...his lizard brain wanted MORE. It wanted to taste, touch, feel that skin all over again, it wanted to know if those tattoos would taste different now that they were out in the open. He took one halting step forward, hand outstretched in awe. He’d never seen anything like it, and he had seen so much in his long life. He had seen beauty beyond reason; this was taking art one step further. Another step had him a little closer, enough to barely brush his fingertips against Q’s sweat-slicked skin, and now he could see how the UV ink complimented the colours of Q’s visible ink, snaking and contorting around the blacks and reds and blues to make a map of something Bond barely understood. Bond’s heart thudded hard and fast in his chest, and his nerves fizzled and popped and sparked. His fingers felt numb as he stretched his hand just that much further.

He touched the lines leading down Q’s back, and Q sighed. Bond could feel the sigh through their connection, and his cock throbbed hard in his pants.

“Oh, my...that is amazing, Q.” His voice leaked out in a rasp, and he stroked his fingers along the glowing lines in Q’s skin, utterly captivated by the sheer scope of the artwork. Amazing didn’t even begin to cover it, but he couldn’t think of any other words. When Q’d mentioned UV tattoos, Bond had envisioned something small, possibly even incriminating or embarrassing, something that he’d wanted to hide within his skin. Not...this. Not this beautiful cyberart. It was like his whole back was a motherboard, circuits and leads and connections, all leading to a central line that crawled up his spine and connected with the android-like tattoos at the base of his skull. “This is beautiful.”

Q turned his head and looked at Bond through hooded eyes, the ice blue glowing in the UV. Bond knew he was staring like a fool, but he couldn’t stop. Q looked even more like a very dangerous fae like this. And Lord help him, Bond couldn’t even think straight anymore. Q spoke, words mimed in the thick air, and Bond shook his head. Q twisted and nearly shouted. “Thank you!” His grin could be seen for kilometers in blinding fog. Then he turned back around and resumed his dance. It was almost like watching...god, it was like watching a panther slink after its prey. And once again, Q was that predator, and Bond was the prey. It felt...interesting to be in the opposite position, to say the least. To say the most? Bond didn’t give a fuck. Q was right, he was so entirely fucking right - Bond would definitely be beneath the scrawny fucker by night’s end, getting his brains shagged out of him while tracing those tattoos that hid in plain sight beneath Q’s ethereally pale skin. He had absolutely no qualms about that, none at all. He stepped up to Q and moulded himself to Q’s back, moving with him, with the music, not caring that he didn’t have the right moves or the right rhythm or the fact that he’d never even heard this music before in his life, and whispered into Q’s ear.

“Remember when I was licking you out, what I said?”

Q leaned back and groaned as Bond’s hands smoothed over his naked torso; one pressed against his sweaty chest, fingers flicking over one sensitive nipple; and one traveling down, down, down… “Oh, fuck. Of course I do -” He gasped as Bond cupped him gently and rolled his hips against Q’s arse, pushing him into Bond’s hand. “Fuck. Yes. If I remember correctly, you stated that come shows up under black lights.”

“Mm-hmm.” Bond licked at Q’s earlobe, nipping lightly along the edge as he kneaded his large hand against the heavy weight of Q’s erection. Q went ramrod straight against him.

“Oh, God. Yes. Jesus fuck yes.” Q shuddered, a sigh escaping from his slack mouth. “Feels good. That feels so fucking good.” Q swallowed. “I know a spot where they won’t see.”

Bond reluctantly let go of Q as the man wriggled, and then Q turned and shot a wink towards Bond. “Come on, then.”

  
Bond grinned, wolfish and hungry, and knew he was no longer in control. He’d tried to take back control, but it wasn’t fruitful. He couldn’t bring himself to care.


	4. Inner Universe

The alcove was perfect for their needs. It was lit only by the surrounding black lights and occasional flickers of coloured light, which meant that it was dark and hidden and just as...magical. _Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, I need to get better lines._ But it was true. It seemed like a little piece of a dark fairy tale come to life in a little corner of the most modern pocket of London. Q stepped into it and nearly disappeared, except for his artwork and his eyes. Bond looked about them and approved. “This is perfect.” His overtrained mind took in every hiding spot, every sniper position, every blinking light that could be a bomb, any and all assailants in the area -

Q plopped down on the wooden crates that were stacked along the wall to serve as rudimentary seating for ones inclined to strive for invisibility as they were, tossed his shirt and cincher down and pulled Bond in by his belt-loops. “Come over here, you dolthead.”

Bond sniggered. “‘Dolthead’? What are we, twelve?”

Q’s eyes flashed, and he smoothed both hands up Bond’s stomach, pressing hard into the heavy muscle. “Would any twelve-year-old you know do this?” He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against the hard ridge of Bond’s erection, and Bond had to close his eyes because seeing Q, his _Quartermaster_ , with his hot, wet mouth on the front of his jeans and practically breathing on his prick made his brain do things that weren’t productive. So he ignored his brain and let his body do the talking. His hands rested on Q’s shoulders for a moment, then one traveled up to grip the loose waves of Q’s mop of dark hair tightly as he pushed Q further against him and groaned in relief. He could feel Q’s hot breath on his cock, could feel those amazing fingers dancing along his belt, could feel his buckle coming undone and his shirt being pushed up so that Q could get at bare skin. Bond shuddered as Q’s wet little tongue traced patterns on his lower abdomen, circles and lines lighting up his nerves until they were on fire.

“God, that feels so good.” Bond’s voice was already taking on the pleading tone he’d been avoiding all this time. “Q - “

“Mmm,” Q responded, and purred. “James, you taste like heaven.”

Bond had to close his eyes for a second so that he could catch his breath, then he looked back down at Q. “Do I?” He tried for snark, but got mildly incoherent instead.

“Yes, like salted caramel drizzled over popcorn. You must be warm. Time to rid yourself of that shirt, don’t you think?”

Bond had never removed an article of clothing so fucking fast in his life. The shirt found itself next to the cincher and fishnetting, and Bond found himself pressed even closer between Q’s splayed knees, Q’s hands on his arse and Q’s mouth on his skin. Q licked and nibbled, bit and sucked, leaving little red marks along Bond’s belly. He traced the waistband of Bond’s jeans with his teeth and growled, matching the sounds coming out of Bond’s mouth.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Q, your mouth!” James huffed, kneading both of his hands into Q’s hair and holding on for dear life. “You feel so good. You are absolutely sinful.”

“Sinful?” Q paused for a bare second, enough to make Bond groan in frustration and jerk his hands tighter. “I promise you, this is nothing. Do you want me to go further?”

Bond stared down at him.

Q gave him a devilish little smirk, and his eyes glowed. “Do you want me to suck you off right here, not twenty feet from the crowds? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being in such a compromising position, getting your dick sucked by a fae creature in public, it turns you on, doesn’t it? You’ve thought about it.”

Bond swallowed, unwilling to say anything. He wanted to hear Q talk like this. Q seemed to see that, because he kept talking.

“You’ve thought about me, on my knees on the dirty floor, licking your prick and kissing it, just right here.” He tapped his finger along the outline of Bond’s heavy erection under his pants. “And you’d grip me by my hair and fuck my face like I was your personal little slut. You’d love it. You want to do it.”

 _God, the words coming out of his mouth…_ Bond growled. “I’d love to.”

“Of course you would.” Q flicked his eyes upwards, looking at Bond from beneath his brows, the ice blue of his contacts making Bond’s head swim dizzyingly once more. “You want to fuck me right here, in this club, want to get me filthy and covered in your come. You want me to wear it like a badge when we go back out there, and you want to see it on me, under the lights. Your own little fantasy.” His hands never stopped moving, alternating between rubbing Bond’s thighs through his denims and tracing his prick and dancing feather-light along his abdominals. The heat in the club bore down on them both, making their skin glisten with moisture. Q positively gleamed with it. From Bond’s vantage point, he could see the bright lines of Q’s tattoos slithering down his back. He tightened his hands into Q’s gorgeous wild mane and tugged hard, and Q moaned with pleasure.

“Get on your knees.” Bond forced as much command into his voice as he could. Then he had to take a mental step back as Q actually obeyed, sliding off the bench seat and lowering himself to the dirty floor; first one knee, then the other. He steadied himself against Bond’s legs and pulled against the hands in his hair to rub his sweat-slicked face against the denim covering Bond’s thighs. “Oh, Q. You look so good like this.” He blew out a breath, willing himself to calm a bit before doing this, or he was certain that he’d come in a minute. He was too much of a consummate lover to allow that to happen. But ever motion Q made, whether it was tugging his own head against Bond’s finger restraints or nearly undulating against his legs, drove his mind further and further to the edge of reason.

“What would you like me to do next?”

Bond looked down again, and Q smirked up at him. Bond returned the dangerous smile. “Unzip me.” When Q reached up with his hands to do so, Bond tugged at his hair in warning. “With your teeth, love.”

Q’s eyes widened, and for a split second Bond worried that it was taking this game a bit too far - but then there was a wicked glint of fire in Q’s gaze, and he leaned forward, just at the limit of Bond’s grip, and used the tip of his tongue to flip the zip toggle between his teeth. He made a small motion with his neck and jaw, and Bond’s jeans opened with absolutely no resistance at all.

“Oh, perfect. That’s good.” Bond whispered, not sure if he wanted Q to hear. “Hands behind your back.” With a small quirk of his full red lips, Q complied once more. _Fuck. When we get back to mine, he’s going to destroy me for this._ Bond knew that for a man like Q, being even the slightest bit submissive - like he was now - was quite possibly the strongest thing he could do. He had enough confidence, enough willpower… It was humbling. And Bond wanted more, so much more. He loosened his fingers a little, enough to give the man at his mercy a small reprieve. “You are perfect like this, Q.”

Q hummed and nuzzled Bond through his pants, pushing his nose against Bond’s cock. “You smell amazing, James. Like heaven.”

“You have some very interesting thoughts about heaven, then, if you so obviously think I’m it.” Bond kneaded his fingers through Q’s hair, stroking his scalp until Q purred in delight.

“I do. Very.” He nipped at the skin just above the elastic of Bond’s pants, leaving another little red mark that smarted. “Interesting.” He nuzzled into Bond’s jeans further and licked along the crease where thigh met hip, and Bond twitched against his cheek. “Ideas.” His hands stayed clasped behind his back as he latched onto the sensitive skin of Bond’s inner thigh and sucked a livid bruise there, touching off a powder keg of sensation between pleasure and pain. Above him, Bond let out a whine and gripped Q’s hair tighter again.

“Good God, Q.”

“Hmmm...you like that?” Q pressed the words into that soft skin, into the bruise, and turned his face to nuzzle as far as he could between Bond’s legs.

Bond couldn’t take much more teasing. He tugged hard at Q’s head and pulled him back and away from his hips, then released the man. Q sat back on his heels and cocked his head, waiting patiently with a playful grin on his face. Bond wiped a hand down his face and huffed out a breath. “You are impossible.”

“And you are impossibly turned on. Can I just suck your prick already, or are we going to go for a world record of abstinence?”

Bond barked out a laugh, then scanned the dance floor. No one had noticed them in the alcove, and there wasn’t much of a chance that someone would. “I think I set that one in Karachi, actually.”

Q rolled his shoulders, keeping his hands at the base of his spine. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of his neck. “That was not my fault.”

“So the ice cream you were eating actually gave you an orgasm?” Bond narrowed his eyes as he pulled the waistband of his pants away from his belly, letting his cock spring up along the hard line of his abdomen, then shoved the pants as far as he could down his thighs without losing his jeans. He tucked the fabric behind his balls and watched as Q’s face went from playful to downright hungry and he licked his full lips.

“Oh, fuck. So beautiful…” Q shifted a little, and now Bond could see Q’s own burgeoning erection pushing against his trousers. “And if you’d tried it, you’d have one too.”

It was Bond’s turn to smirk as he took himself into hand and stroked lightly in a wanton display. Q made a small noise in the back of his throat and leaned forward just a bit. For a moment, just a little tiny moment, a small voice in the back of Bond’s mind couldn’t believe what he was doing. The voice shut up immediately when he looked back down and looked Q straight in the eyes and saw the raw need flickering there.

“I won’t need ice cream, love.”

  



	5. Make You Want It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this - had a very rough year, and I'm trying to catch up with all the things I abandoned. Hopefully this is good :)

Q licked his lips and hummed in agreement, his glowing eyes flickering under full eyelashes. Keeping his hands locked behind his back, he leaned forward and pressed his nose against the underside of James’s cock, then brushed his high cheekbone along the sensitive skin. James groaned, voice rumbling deep in his chest. Beads of sweat glinted and glistened on their skin, rolling down taut muscles and stunning ink. James’s eyes followed each trail, trying to keep himself from going completely around the bend from the way Q was teasing him. Light touches of his nose, his tongue - _oh, thank fuck he’s using his tongue now, at least_ \- and the barest of vocalisations as he kissed and mouthed along Bond’s length. Each beat of his heart made him twitch, and he could feel Q’s grin against him. He wanted to push, wanted to grab Q by the hair again and force him to swallow him down, but he couldn’t quite do it. But then it hit him.

Q was waiting for instruction. Finally, he is back in control. Bond’s cock twitched hard, nearly bouncing off Q’s tongue as he explored the slit.

Q looked up with a smirk. “Seems you had an epiphany, finally. Do you understand now?”

“Come closer,” Bond growled. Q obeyed, the barest of flickers in his face to betray him. On his knees, without hands to support him, he looked like a Goth penguin. Bond’s lips quirked a bit. As Q’s chest came to rest against his knees, James reached out and tangled his right hand in his ridiculous mop of hair once more. He wrapped his left around the base of his prick and pulled Q’s head back. The dark hunger dancing in Q’s changeling eyes intensified as Bond pressed himself down, sliding the slick tip of his cock along Q’s red, red mouth. The combination of Q’s spit and the precome dripping out of him coated Q’s lips, making them glisten in the reflected coloured lights. Bond growled again. “Open your mouth.”

The way Q’s eyelids fluttered when he did so should be illegal. His tongue, just as cherry-red as his lips, peeked out to lick the liquid off his lips and then laved at the head of Bond’s cock, flicking away the moisture there. Q groaned in ecstasy. Heavy bass reverberated through the thick air around them as Bond pushed into that open mouth. He watched, entranced, as he sank in, inch by wet glorious inch. Q’s eyes rolled languorously, and he pressed his tongue against the ridge underneath. The rough surface sent sparks shooting through Bond’s nerves, as did the metal ball of Q’s piercing. “Christ,” he bit out. “How didn’t I notice you have your damned tongue pierced? You little harlot.” He gripped Q’s hair harder, tugging just a tiny bit. Q hummed and tightened his lips, sucking a little. Bond groaned, then tugged harder. Q’s jaw slackened enough that Bond was able to push the rest of himself in. The head pressed against the back of Q’s throat, and he could feel how the muscles spasmed. _Oh. Gag reflex_. Q’s mouth got even wetter, and his eyes flickered shut for a moment as he visibly fought the gag. Bond held him there, at that point, for a bit longer, then twitched his hips back enough so that Q could breathe. A dribble of saliva rolled down Q’s chin, adding to the sheen already lighting up his pale skin. Q gasped around Bond, and his throat worked to swallow. Everything tightened up. His hands rolled and grasped at nothing at the base of his spine, and his shoulders wiggled.

Bond pushed back in, and Q let him in, pretty as you please. This time, he swallowed around the head of Bond’s prick as he nuzzled into the light curls of hair at his base. Air puffed out of his nose as he moaned. Bond let go of himself and trailed his fingers down Q’s trembling back muscles, tracing that damned tattoo. Sweat dripped down his brow as he slowly fucked Q’s mouth, pulling back when Q’s throat fluttered and pushing in the moment after a breath. He kept up the devastating pace, driving both of them nuts, until Q whined desperately. Bond pulled out completely, watching again as Q’s cheeks hollowed out. He was flush with lust, blood colouring the fine bones of his cheeks. Sweat streaked his face. The music swirled around him, and the spasming lights flashed off the long strand of spit still connecting them once his head popped out of Q’s lips. Q gasped, eyes wild. His tongue pressed against his lower lip, and he jerked forward as if he wanted Bond’s cock back in his mouth.

Bond resisted the urge to ask if he was alright. Instead, he yanked hard on his hair, pulling him off his knees to press fully against his chest. Q’s raging erection spoke for his state. Bond claimed his mouth, using his own tongue like his cock, tasting himself in Q. Q melted against him, whining and undulating against him, not even masking his need anymore. Bond let his hands roamed around on slick skin, gripping here and stroking there. They worked at Q’s flies, flicking open belt and trousers with deft fingers. A slower song reverberated through the air now, and Bond moved along with it as he slid Q’s clothing down trembling thighs, kissing as much skin as he could, tasting the salt and arousal even on Q’s slightly bruised knees. Q groaned, but kept his own hands at his back, not touching. Bond could see, could feel, Q’s need to touch, though. Q’s need to control, to be _in_ control. _To give that much up_ \- He stayed down on his knees, running his hands along Q’s naked thighs, settling him as one would a horse. “You lovely thing. You beautiful, lovely thing.” He kissed the crease of Q’s hip, damp and tight, then trailed his tongue to the thatch of dark hair just above his pants. “You were good for me, so I’m going to be good for you.”

Q’s hum sounded tremulous and desperate. “Please, James. Fuck. _Fuck._ I -”

“I know, love.” _And now I’m saying it. ‘Love’. But that’s not what this is, is it? It can't be._ Bond shook the errant thought away and hooked his fingers into the waistband of the heather grey pants, sliding them down Q’s thighs to join his other clothes on the floor. Q whined again, hands working behind him. Bond debated on letting Q do what he’d done - letting Q fuck his mouth. But ever since Silva’s barely veiled threat… he couldn’t. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva as he eyed Q’s prick. “My God, Q. So hard for me. You can’t wait to get in my mouth, can you?” He wasn’t even sure Q could hear him over the music, but the twitch of Q’s thigh muscles and an animalistic growl from above told him Q got the gist of what he said. He looked up through his eyelashes at Q, imitating the body language the hacker had used on him earlier. “You want me to suck you, don’t you? Want to own my mouth like I owned yours. Don’t you?”

“Yes, fuck yes, James, _please!_ ”

Bond licked his lips. “I can’t let you fuck it, but I’ll suck you -”

“God, do it. Stop fucking talking and _do it, please,_ so we can get to you fucking me so hard I go fucking blind!”

Bond chuckled and licked a quick stripe up the underside of Q’s prick. He was so hard, so hard and ready. Q jerked hard in Bond’s grip, moaning with utter abandon. Bond grinned against his skin and lowered his head down, taking Q into his mouth gently. He could taste Q’s precome, and he pressed his tongue flat against the head to gather it up. Q couldn’t stop making noise now, and his stomach rippled with each swipe. Finally, Bond relented. He pulled back and grabbed both of Q’s hands from behind himself and laid them on his shoulders. “Hold on, darling fae.”

Q’s fingers dug in, and he cursed a blue streak. Bond grinned and got back to work.

  
  
  
  
  



	6. Like A Hot Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, this thing is finished! It took me far too long, but I finally got it! Thanks to everyone in Antidiogenes, and also thank you to those who have stayed with this story and for any new readers I will get! Enjoy! 
> 
> (there will be an epilogue, but it's super short. This is technically the end; the epilogue is the whole reason for this thing.)
> 
> Edit: How many shirts is James Bond wearing? Apparently, I can't count. I fixed that little error.

Having Q’s hands on his shoulder as he blew him woke something inside Bond. Q’s hands kneaded and gripped, stroked and twitched with every movement Bond made on his prick. It was just as well that Bond had him move his hands, since it seemed Q’s knees were becoming gelatin under his ministrations. _He’s that far gone. This power play, switching back and forth between dominance and submissiveness has driven him to the edge as well._ James groaned around him just to see what it would do to his precious Quartermaster.

“Ah, _fuck._ ” Q gripped James’ shoulders harder and gave a full-body jerk as he came. His cock twitched rapidly, and James swallowed quickly to catch all the warm slick filling his mouth. He was too good at this to lose any. He pulled back, laving his tongue along Q to wipe up any stray strands, and let the head pop out of his mouth with a wet noise that got lost in the latest song.

Q nearly collapsed against the wall, gasping out a staccato of high pitched noises resembling words. Bond didn’t want to wait until the high of orgasm wore off; he reached forward and pulled Q to him once more, threading fingers tightly into the sweaty and sparkly mass of dark browns and blacks on Q’s head. His hair was spectacular and looked like a cat styled it half the time, but at this moment it was one of the single most erotic things Bond has ever seen - no, touched. He ran his fingers through it, then gripped as hard as he could. Above the music, he heard Q whine and gasp again. He looked down at Q’s face and realised he _could_ look down. _He's not standing,_   _I’m holding him up by his hair. Oh fuck._ He almost let go, but a hand on his thigh stopped him. He looked at Q again, saw the lust flashing in his eyes. Saw the words plainly as if he were saying them - _no, don’t let go. I’m not safewording. It’s fine. I’m fine. Do it._

Oh my God. James growled and pulled a little harder, twisting at the hip to throw Q none too gently over the table, scattering the clothing on it. Q’s chest hit with a wet slap and he wheezed a little, but he still didn’t say a word, _the_ word. They’d worked out a safeword when they each realised in separate ways that they both like it a bit...wild. James embraced the wildness like a cloak, and Q thrived in the presence of it. They’ve yet to use their words, despite Q pressing sharp blades to James’ skin and Bond throwing Q into chairs and against walls like a ragdoll. They liked pressing the limits; but there was always a first time for everything, though, and James figured this would probably be it. What was fine in the safety of the bedroom might not be fine in public. He pulled footwear and trousers and pants away from Q’s thin ankles. _Can't get much more public than this._ The air around them felt hotter, heavier. In front of him, Q moaned and writhed against the shiny black tabletop, glitter and neon lights flitting and sparkling everywhere. The mists from the fog machines were gathering again, and Bond could almost believe they were in a fairy tale. The huntsman claiming a fae for his own. “Fuck. I swear I’ve picked up a contact high from something.”

“Pheromones?” Q panted. “I don’t fucking know, and I don’t fucking _care_. Get down here before I just rub myself off against the table.”

James growled. “You can’t. You’ve just come.”

Q laughed. He still floated in the moment, if his voice was any indication. “My recovery rate is astounding, if you haven't noticed.” He wiggled his arse and rolled lazily to display his half-hard cock.

“Oh, is it?” James let loose his wolf’s grin and slapped Q's rear to get him over on his stomach again. Q yelped but obliged. James leaned over Q’s back, pressing hot lips to the even hotter skin at the base of Q’s neck. Q whined and undulated beneath him. James kept up the light kisses as he grabbed both of Q’s wrists and pulled them above his head, anchoring them with one big hand. The bottom dropped out of Q’s voice as James dragged his lips down Q’s spine, moving off to one side as he did so that he wouldn’t have to let go of the hacker’s wrists. The tattoos glowed, and he licked each one in turn.

Q wasn’t even speaking English anymore; he switched to Russian halfway through Bond’s exploration of his tattoos. “Иисус гребаный Христос. Иисус чертовски Христа , Яша . Так хорошо, чувствует себя так хорошо.” He rolled his hips and groaned with need, snaking against the wood. Sweat beaded on his skin from head down to his mile-long legs. James traced each glowing tattoo, then worked his way back up Q’s back along the normal ink. Q shuddered and moaned, pressing his flushed face into the tabletop. “Oh my god, Bond. Боже мой. Боже мой." Once James got back up to Q’s neck, he shifted back behind him and bit down hard just at the nape, making Q jerk against his chest. _“Fuck!”_

“Hmm, just like that, Q. Give yourself to me.” James hummed and set his teeth into Q’s milky skin a little further down, leaving angry dark marks that were sure to bruise in pretty colours in the morning. He followed Q’s spine, leaving marks every few inches. He moved the same way as when he followed the ink, since there was plenty of spine to work with. James went with how Q’s body felt; if he pushed up into the bite, it was good. But if he tried pulling away, James would relent. Each bite, soft or vicious, would make Q howl, and the noise would reverberate down into their bones. He reached Q’s tailbone and licked lightly at the tiny dip before biting even harder than before. Q sobbed helplessly into his arm, his wrists jerking where James held them against the wood. James hummed into Q’s skin. “Yes, my little one. Perfect, so perfect.” He knew the atmosphere of the club - the air, the music - was getting to him, as was the way Q gave himself over to pleasure like he did. Slowly, he let go of Q’s wrists, letting his fingers raise gooseflesh along Q’s arms. Q kept his arms above his head and whined low in his chest. James traced the tattoos with his trigger finger as he drew his hand down the curve of Q’s back, and Q gripped the edge of the table, rolling his forehead back and forth, leaving bright stains of sweat that glittered in the light.

James dipped his head lower and regretted not grabbing lubricant before they left. _Oh well. Looks like this is going to get sloppy._ He lapped lazily at Q’s hole, his pace masking his own urgency. He worked up as much saliva as he could and pressed it against Q with his tongue, savouring how Q went boneless and soft with his motions. The musky, natural scent nearly drove him mad once again; the glitter that was getting everywhere confused him for a moment - _where the fuck was it coming from? -_  before he threw himself into the task of opening Q up as much as possible while getting him as wet as possible. He kept muttering half-words of encouragement as he went, pressing kisses and nips onto Q’s sensitive skin as he worked three fingers into him. “Such a good boy, god you are beautiful like this. Filthy little fuck toy, you love this, getting buggered over a table in a club. You want this, you need this.” He slathered more saliva into Q’s hole as Q sobbed out his lust above him. Finally, he deemed Q was open enough and slick enough that he could just...press...gently…

Q moaned long and low as James leaned up and into him, lifting up onto his elbows and lengthening his back into a curve that would make a cat jealous. His hips tipped up and back, and he let James into him. James cursed out loud at the tightness, knowing the burn that Q must be feeling. Too tight, but just slick enough. He sank in deeper, breathing with Q as the man beneath him sighed and groaned, shifting to allow an easier stretch. It seemed to take ages, but James finally seated himself fully in his lover. Q purred, his fingers stretching and kneading the air. “Oh, fuck, James.  Вы удивительно, так густо . Так чертовски большой. Так чертовски хорошо."

James smiled and rested his forehead between Q’s shoulders. “You are speaking Russian again, love.” That damned word again.

Q sighed, and James watched the lights shine on their damp skin. “I know, любовь. You make me forget everything but my name when you are inside me.”

“If that’s the case, I’m not doing this right.” James ran trembling fingers along Q’s slick sides, and rolled his hips experimentally. With their skin touching, the heat of the club turned tropical. Between them, their sweat mingled and dripped lazily over beautiful curves and hardened planes of muscle.

Q choked beneath him and let out a strangled cry.

James nodded. “There we go.” He did it again, and Q shuddered, dropping his head down between his shoulders. Another stroke, and it was like the flat all over again, Q succumbing to the pleasure James was providing. James felt like he was taming something wild and primitive. He ran his palm back up Q’s spine and took up a handful of that glorious hair again, yanking Q’s head back up for a kiss as he started moving, rolling his hips in time with his kisses. Q’s needy noises sank into James’ ears, into his bones, infused into the very tips of his fingers and curled into a ball in his gut. Q kissed back like a train wreck, much too overwhelmed for much more than desperate biting and licking. _Christ. I’m not gonna last long, not like this._ He couldn’t stop, though, not when Q was wild and wanton, sprawled out and fucking _taking it_. James bit a line of marks down Q’s jawline and onto his neck, feeling the orgasm balling up deep between his hips. “Fuck,” he muttered into the first dark mark at Q’s nape, the one he started working at again. Q rolled his hips along with James’ thrusts, working his cock like a pro. He still whined and moaned and spoke Russian at James, but he was working hard to make James lose his fucking mind. All at once, James felt the ball coalesce into something dangerous, and he sank his teeth into the tender spot once more as his whole world sparked out in a ball of white light. Beneath him, he could feel Q shudder through his second one, could feel the noises he made trapped against the table. Between one breath and the next, the bottom fell out of his world, and he went limp against Q’s back.

**  
**  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you using mobile and can't hover over text - 
> 
> “Иисус гребаный Христос. Иисус чертовски Христа , Яша . Так хорошо, чувствует себя так хорошо.” = "Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus fucking Christ, Yasha. So good, feels so good."
> 
> "Боже мой. Боже мой." = "Oh my god, oh my god."
> 
> "Вы удивительно, так густо . Так чертовски большой. Так чертовски хорошо." = "You are amazing, so thick. So fucking big. So fucking good."
> 
> "любовь" = "love"


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a shorty to explain the whole reason for this ridiculous thing.

“Oof. James, a blanket you are not.”

James groaned, too damned content to move much. Only an insistent hand slapping at the bare skin of his hip galvanised him to open his eyes. “Mrfh?” He literally had a mouthful of Q’s sweaty hair, and while it didn’t taste horrible - just a bit salty - he had to put a stop to his sudden obsession. He leaned up on his elbows. “Problem?” His voice sounded wrecked.

“Have you forgotten?” Q sounded minorly irritated, which was his normal state. James didn’t take much offence. Then he blinked and absolutely did realise just where they were. And how Q was trapped against a table.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” James scrambled to his feet and, by the good graces of experience and training, did not fall flat on his arse when he tripped over his own trouser legs and Q’s shoes. He felt hot and sticky; disgusting, really. Q couldn’t feel any better, especially as James watched him peel himself off the table. His cock hung, relaxed, against his leg, and he looked utterly destroyed. “Fuck, Q. I’m sorry.” James eyed the red line across Q’s belly where he pressed against the table as James fucked him seven ways from Sunday. “Are you alright?”

Q smiled, lazy and bright, and James realised that yes, the Quartermaster was perfectly fine and exactly where he wanted to be. “I’m alright. Tired, sticky, and in need of water and a smoke, but fine.” His voice cracked in his throat, and James nodded quickly. He set about righting their clothing, buttoning and zipping up until they looked presentable once more. Q held up a finger when James tried handing him his corset and shirt.

“What’s wrong?”

Q grinned and moved backwards, back into the glow of the blacklights and the oppressive air, and pointed at his bare torso.

James threw his head back and laughed so hard he made himself dizzy. Wet come didn’t glow, but dry come did.


End file.
